


take me back to the start

by stevenstamkos



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2013 Draft, Groundhog Day, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 17:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10195487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevenstamkos/pseuds/stevenstamkos
Summary: Nate wakes up. It is still June 30th.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt (from tumblr): i woke up in the middle of the night unable to go back to sleep with the thought "nate/jo, groundhog day." is it draft day, and nate can't bring himself to say i love you before they're separated? is it jo, getting into a huge fight and breaking up with nate last year during His Troubled Times?
> 
> Title from "The Scientist" by Coldplay.

Newark, June 2013. Middle of goddamn nowhere. If America is going to have states, Nate thinks, might as well make them worth being in. There's nothing in New Jersey except casinos and the Turnpike and kilometers of cold, miserable beach that spawned some really awful reality television. And hockey, apparently.

Like, _good_ hockey, three Cups in the last 20 years kind of hockey. Marty Brodeur hockey. But Nate isn't here for the Devils, not unless something goes horribly, drastically wrong tomorrow. Nate is here for the Colorado Avalanche and Patrick Roy. See, _his_ future franchise had Hall of Fame goalies, too.

Tomorrow it'll hopefully be his childhood hero Joe Sakic calling his name to play for the team of his childhood dreams, and he will pull on the burgundy and white sweater and, if he's really really lucky, hang up the red and green Mooseheads one for good.

“Go to sleep, Mac,” his roommate says in his weirdly monotonous voice, and it's good advice since tomorrow will be one of the biggest days of their lives, so Nate does.

 

 

The first thought Nate has when he wakes up is: “I hope Seth doesn't go first.”

 

 

Jo is moody at breakfast, the way he usually is. He’s not a morning person, always quiet and a little soft around the edges whenever Nate picked him up for school, dozing or staring out the window as the familiar Halifax buildings flashed by. There is a paper cup of Starbucks by his elbow because no one in America has ever heard of a Timmy’s. Nate knows that they should stop him from hitting the caffeine or he’ll never sit still later when there will be five thousand cameras trained on them, but it’s draft day and Jo looks half-dead. He probably needs it.

“Rough night?” Nate asks.

Jo grunts into his coffee. “Couldn’t sleep. Too wired.”

Figures.

Nate flashes back to the Combine, him and Jo curled up on one of the beds. “Jo is quiet and good,” he had said later, during some interview with TSN or Sportsnet or NHL Network or whoever. And he was, quiet and good and sweetly drowsing against Nate’s shoulder until Nate forced himself to sleep in the other bed.

Thinks back even further, to World Juniors. Huberdeau threatening to tie Jo to the mattress if he didn’t shut the fuck up and sleep. Rielly begging Nate to come to their room and do something about his liney. Because Jo, all of 17 years old, had been so fucking fired up to be playing for Canada alongside 19-year-olds, he’d taken his Jo-ness to the next level and no one but Nate could handle him.

(Jo hadn’t slept on the plane back from Ufa either, but he _had_ been quiet and still, worn out from crying and disappointment.)

Jo takes a sip of whatever espresso-laden Starbucks nightmare he has in that cup.

“Go easy on the caffeine, you gotta stay calm today when they call your name,” Nate says. But he only watches passively as Jo finishes his coffee and tosses the cup.

The Prudential Center is too bright, too loud, too crowded, too many flashing cameras and stiff suits and smiling adults. Nate feels like a damn prize animal on display.

No one really knows whose name is going to be called first.

“It’s a marvelously deep draft class.”

“The Avs are leaning toward a forward, they’ll take any of MacKinnon, Drouin, or Barkov.”

“But _Seth Jones_ is the highest ranked prospect in this draft.”

“You’re way better than Seth Jones,” Jo says fiercely, right before he goes to take a seat with his parents. He smoothes down Nate’s black and white tie, which Nate had agonized over for like three hours at home before packing it, hoping it was neutral enough.

Nate’s throat clicks, and he swallows around it. “Thanks Jo. Good luck, eh?”

Jo shrugs, putting on the cocky smile that means he’s trying to overcompensate for his nerves. “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. They can’t resist me.”

Some deep dark selfish part of Nate wishes that Jo weren’t so good at hockey. Maybe if Jo weren’t so good, he’d go in the second round, or the third, anything but the first round. At least then, there’d be the sliver of a chance. Some tiny hope that they’d get drafted together.

But Jo is too damn good, too good for everyone to not be falling all over themselves for a piece of him. Nate would know.

“Alright, Mr. Hockey Hands. You think everyone’s jizzing themselves over you.”

Jo winks and grins, snaggletooth flashing. “That’s right. I’m a hot commodity. And so are you, hotshot. Don’t forget to smile up there when Sakic calls your name first.”

“Yeah yeah.”

Jo turns to find his seat, throwing Nate one last aggressive thumbs up. It doesn’t do much to quell the nerves in his stomach, but it’s nice anyway.

Joe Sakic calls Nate’s name after all.

Nate breathes out.

Jo goes third, to Tampa, gets to talk about how great it is to play with Martin St. Louis and Steven Stamkos while wearing his stiff new Lightning jersey.

The Avalanche jersey is the away one, burgundy on white. The sleeves are too long and fall over Nate’s hands while he answers a million interview questions, about Colorado, about Halifax, about his future. About Jo.

“He’ll be great,” Nate says, forcing a smile on his face. His new Avalanche cap itches a little. “Tampa is lucky to have him.”

Jo says much the same about Nate and Denver.

They’re exhausted after their interviews, catching a break in a little room in the basement of the Prudential Center. There isn’t a camera in Nate’s face for the first time in like, five hours.

“Freaky how so much is gonna change, right?” Nate says conversationally.

Sasha Barkov ignores him, probably because he doesn’t feel like any more English, and Seth Jones only picks at his Predators sweater.

Jo is the only one who answers. “Yeah. Gonna be a little weird, being on different teams.”

“It’s...yeah. Gonna be weird. Denver and Tampa, huh.”

“It’s not so far. We’re still gonna be friends,” Jo says. He pushes the sleeves of his sweater back and adjusts his cap, avoiding Nate’s eyes.

It’s like, they’ve been drafted to different teams, and suddenly they don’t know how to talk to each other anymore.

“Yeah,” Nate says. “Yeah, you’re my best friend, course.”

Nate doesn’t need to tell him that half a country isn’t going to change that. Jo already knows how much Nate cherishes their friendship.

As for the rest of it, the rest of the tangled emotions that get stuck in Nate’s chest, Nate hasn’t told him.

It’s too little too late anyway.

Jo lays his head on Nate’s shoulder, like they’re on the bus between Halifax and Rimouski, and Nate can almost pretend that nothing’s changed.

 

 

Nate wakes up. Sean is still passed out in the next bed, snoring blissfully. There’s not an Avalanche or Flames piece of merch in sight, which is weird because Nate could’ve sworn they threw their new sweaters over the dresser last night.

“Hey, Monny,” he hisses into the muted gray light of their hotel room.

Sean grunts and wakes up suddenly, wide awake. “Shit, Mac, you scared me,” he says, though he doesn’t sound very scared at all.

Nate ignores him. “Get up, we gotta get to the arena soon.”

Sean checks his phone and sighs at the time. “My alarm’s supposed to ring in 10 minutes, but fine. Draft day nerves keeping you up?”

“What?”

“Draft day nerves. That why you’re up so early? You know you’re gonna go first or second.”

That’s like, the most Nate has ever heard Sean say like, ever. “I know that. I went first.”

Sean gives him a funny look. “Yeah, in all the mock drafts. You’ll be fine.”

“No listen Monny, like, I went first. Yesterday. It’s the second day of the draft.”

“Mac, you’ve been dreaming.”

This makes no sense. Sean must still be half-asleep. “It’s July 1st, man. Get it together.” He digs his phone out from under his pillow, and the screen lights up. _June 30, 2013._

Behind him, Sean is grumbling something about Nate being weird, but Nate doesn’t hear him.

June 30th. Day one of the 2013 NHL Entry Draft. Except yesterday was June 30th.

No one seems to have a problem with today being June 30th again, not his parents or any of the other draftees. Not even Jo, waiting in the hotel lobby with his cup of Starbucks.

“Couldn’t sleep. Too wired,” he explains when he sees Nate’s look.

Maybe it was a dream. God knows Nate’s been dreaming about the draft a lot lately. Maybe he dreamt up Joe Sakic calling his name and the interviews and way Jo had looked at him afterward, a little pleading as he swayed into Nate’s space.

Joe Sakic calls his name.

Nate gives the same answers during his interviews.

“We’re still gonna be friends,” Jo says, and Nate didn’t dream up the way he looks so hopeful and so sad at the same time, or the feel of his new Tampa Bay Lightning cap under Nate’s cheek.

 _I love you_ , Nate thinks about saying, like he thinks about saying all the damn time.

He doesn’t.

Today is the first brand new day of their brand new lives. Colorado’s in his future; Halifax and Jo will soon be just a whispered memory. It’s too late for silly things like love.

 

 

Nate wakes up on June 30th.

Jo drinks his coffee.

Nate goes first overall. Jo goes third. It’s the same damn cycle, rinse and repeat.

 

 

Seven June 30ths in, Nate didn’t think he could get tired of his own draft day. It’s a day he’s been looking forward to his whole life, the tangible proof that he made it.

When he was younger, he used to dream about all the different ways it could happen. Now he knows.

Nate is so damn sick of hearing his name called. He is sick of getting up on stage, shaking Joe Sakic and Patrick Roy’s hands, posing with his new sweater and cap. He is sick of smiling at Gary Bettman and thanking everyone in sight, like today is new and exciting and every fucking interview question is a delightful surprise.

He is so sick of Jo wearing that Lightning sweater and smiling sadly at Nate like there is not a damn thing wrong with the world.

 

 

Nate grabs Jo and suggests they get coffee from the Dunkin Donuts a block from the hotel. Jo looks surprised, but he goes along with it.

It doesn’t change anything.

 

 

Nate knocks over Jo’s Starbucks on purpose.

Jo is too tired to yell at him, but he glares half-heartedly.

There is an itch under Nate’s skin, a need to do something, change something, break out of the cycle. He doesn’t care if he wakes up tomorrow and it’s July 1st and he didn’t get drafted at all in the first round. Might even be a little relieved.

He picks a fight for no damn reason with Jo, and early-morning Jo is pissy enough without coffee to go right along with it. They don’t speak the rest of the day.

Actually, with what he said to Jo, Nate wouldn’t be surprised if Jo doesn’t speak to him ever again.

Nate still goes first. Jo still goes third. It might be June 30th every day for Nate, but he can’t change the GMs’ minds, and he can’t stop the draft.

The only difference is that Nate loses Jo.

It’s not all that different from what was happening every other time he’s lived today.

 

 

Nate wakes up and decides to leave.

He doesn’t pack much. His debit card, some cash he has in his wallet. Not even a change of clothes. It’s not like he'll need it, if he wakes up and tomorrow is still June 30th.

Sean will probably freak a little when he wakes up and Nate is gone, because Sean is a good, sensible Canadian boy who doesn’t expect people to do stuff like run away the day they’re supposed to be drafted to the NHL. Nate would feel bad for leaving him to worry, but Sean won’t remember worrying tomorrow anyway.

It’s a beautifully warm, clear day in Newark. Not many people walking around. Newark Penn Station is a five minute walk away, and Nate’s feet lead him there.

He can’t stay in Newark today. It’s too claustrophobic, he can’t—

His phone rings. It’s Sean. Nate lets it go to voicemail.

He buys a ticket to New York Penn Station—and who even came up with that, Newark Penn Station and _New York_ Penn Station, on the same damn rail line. The track is semi-crowded, full of people in suits looking self-important. Nate is glad he left his draft day suit in the hotel.

His phone rings again. This time, it’s Jo. Figures Sean would get him right away.

Nate turns his phone off.

It’s only a 15 minute train ride to the city. Nate considers taking the subway to Times Square—he’s only been to Times Square once before, during the top prospects stuff—but decides to just walk around instead. It’s not like he’s got a reason to be here. He just needs to be—away.

Here, in the crush of New York City, he’s no one, not Nathan MacKinnon, first overall pick.

Not Nathan MacKinnon, who’s so in love with his best friend he can’t think straight for it, and who can’t say a thing about it.

Here, in this world of tall gray buildings and taxis and pigeons, hockey feels really far away.

For a second, he gives in to weakness and turns on his phone. He has 24 missed calls and about a thousand text messages.

“Nate, where the hell are you—”

“Nate, people are worried—”

“Nate, call me—”

“Nate,” Jo’s voice says, tinny and a little distorted. It’s still his voice though, the round vowels that Nate loves so much. “You remember the first words you said to me? ‘Come to Halifax, we need you here.’ Cause I was running away.” He pauses, and in the background, Nate can hear shouting. “I don’t know what’s up with you today, but. I—We need you, Nate.”

His phone begins playing the next recorded message, and Nate hangs up.

In a crowded room in the Prudential Center, Joe Sakic is calling his name. The cameras are swiveling to where he’s supposed to be seated in the front row with his parents, hugging and crying and sweating out his nerves.

Nate runs and doesn’t look back.

 

 

“The Colorado Avalanche are proud to select with our first pick, from the Halifax Mooseheads, Nathan MacKinnon.”

Nate pulls on the sweater, white and burgundy, and he smiles and smiles.

 

 

“You ever watch _Groundhog Day?_ ” Nate asks Jo.

Jo sips his coffee and makes a face. “Yeah, think Frky was playing it in our hotel room during some roadie earlier in the season. Don’t really remember it though, I was pretty wiped that night. Why?”

Nate thinks about telling him. _I’ve been stuck in a time loop. I keep waking up and it’s June 30th and I get drafted to the Avs and you get drafted to the Bolts and then I wake up and it’s June 30th again—_

“No reason. Just thinking of a movie we can watch tonight after the draft.”

“Yeah?” Jo smiles, sweet and slightly more awake now. “You wanna come by my room? I can kick Seth out. He probably wants to hang with some of his friends from the Dub anyway.”

Nate nods. “Yeah, sounds good.”

“Already thinking about tonight?” Jo teases. “No draft day nerves for Mister First Overall?”

It is the 24th time Nate is living his draft day. He hasn’t felt nerves in _weeks_. “Nah, it’ll be fine. It’s just the draft.”

“Just the draft. Right, like it’s not a big deal at all.” Jo rolls his eyes.

“It’ll be over before you know it, trust me.” _And then it’ll happen all over again, except you won’t remember. But I will._

Nate gets drafted. Jo gets drafted.

Nate goes to Jo’s room, and they watch _Groundhog Day_. Jo falls asleep halfway through, wiped out from nerves and crashing after his caffeine fix.

Nate looks at him, and he _wants_.

When he wakes up, it is still June 30th, and he’s in his own bed in his own room.

 

 

Nate tells Jo he loves him.

Jo leaves.

 

It goes like this:

“I am losing my goddamn mind,” Nate says, because he doesn’t know how to start this conversation.

Across the bed from him, Jo is burrowing back under the covers, sleepy and disinterested after letting Nate into his room.

(Nate had woken up, angry at himself and at the world, and he’d slammed out of his room leaving Sean to call softly after him. Down the hall, seven rooms down, right turn, and knock on the door until Jo cracks it open looking sleep-rumpled and annoyed.)

“I’m going crazy, Jo. I think I’m going nuts.”

“You woke me up before my alarm to tell me that?” comes Jo’s voice, muffled under the thin hotel sheets.

Nate pulls at the covers until Jo’s face emerges. “Listen, something’s wrong. I keep waking up today. I think I’m doing something wrong, and I need to fix it.”

“What? You’re not making sense, man.”

“Jo, Jo, listen. Maybe it’s all wrong, us getting drafted. Maybe it’s not what we’re supposed to do.” Jo’s mouth opens, incredulous, and Nate plows on. “Maybe this is the universe saying that today isn’t supposed to be happening.”

“ _Tabarnak_ , Nathan. What the fuck.”

“It took me forever to figure it out, like, I’ve been doing something different every day but it’s not breaking the spell.”

“What the hell is going on, Nate. Have you been dreaming?” He reaches for Nate’s forehead, and Nate bats his hand away.

“No. Just—hear me out.”

And Nate tells him everything.

Jo’s face is all scrunched up with confusion, but he’s listening and nodding along and interrupting with questions, because even when Nate comes up with a wild play in the dying seconds of the third, he’s always trusted Nate. Nate has never loved him more.

If they get split up, go to Colorado and Tampa, that means the end of Nate-and-Jo. No more Jonathan Drouin in Nate’s life, and Nate doesn’t know if he can handle that.

_I love you, I love you, please don’t leave me. We’re soulmates, we said, we promised. Please don’t leave me._

“Maybe we can run away together,” Nate says, because like he said, he is losing his goddamn mind.

Jo snorts. “And go where? I’m 18, Nate. You’re 17. The entirety of Canada will know our faces after today, if they don’t already. Where the hell can we run to?”

“Dunno, anywhere. Away from hockey. Just you and me. It can work, right?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Jo’s voice is a whipcrack, too loud and too harsh. “It’s hockey, it’s _the Show_ , we worked our whole lives to get here, and you wanna just throw it away all of a sudden?” He softens his voice. “I know this is weird, but we’ll figure it out. Giving up hockey and running off into the wild together isn’t gonna change anything though. That’s just stupid.”

It _is_ stupid, stupid and so fucking selfish, asking Jo to choose between him and hockey. Maybe Nate could do it, but Jo can’t. Maybe Nate can’t either, not even after 31 days of being drafted over and over again by the Colorado Avalanche.

But he can’t seem to stop himself, because nothing else _works_.

“Just think about it, you and me. Nate and Jo, forever. No one trying to tear us apart.”

“Without hockey though, Nate? I can’t. You can’t tell me I have to choose between you and—” He makes some sort of expansive gesture that’s supposed to mean _hockey, the NHL, all my dreams_.

“I love you. Please, Jo.”

That’s what they always said, that love is supposed to be enough.

Jo rubs at his eyes, ducking his head. His voice, when it comes, is very soft. “Me too, Nate, but I worked too hard for this to just give it all up and run away with you.”

And there’s the emptiness, the fear and frustration rising up again. Nate can feel it clawing at his throat. He is so tired, and alone, and running out of options. That’s why he says it. “If you really loved me, you would.”

Jo stares at him, wide-eyed and a little stunned, before his face twists in anger. “Get out of my fucking room, Nathan.”

Nate stares at his hands, doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. In the next bed over, Seth Jones is somehow still asleep.

Jo gets up and leaves, and he slams the door behind him.

 

 

Nate wakes up. It is still June 30th. He spends it blackout drunk even though he’s underage in the States and he has to convince Seth to go with him to the liquor store so they can use his American fake.

 

 

“You know, if you really loved him, you wouldn’t ask him to choose.”

Nate can’t believe he’s getting relationship advice from Sean fucking Monahan, who looks like he barely has two emotions to rub together. This is so embarrassing.

He’s half-afraid Sean is going to say something corny and overdone like “If you love him, let him go” in his dry little voice, and then Nate will have to leave and not come back to his room for the rest of the day.

Sean’s mouth is doing this weird puckered thing, but he listened to Nate rant for like a solid hour and didn’t call a psych ward. Nate leans against the mattress at his back, seated on the floor in the space between their beds.

Sean stretches out his legs, pressing his calf to Nate’s thigh. “You said you asked him to run away with you.”

“It was stupid, I was out of my mind,” Nate says. “I don’t think I could even do that myself.”

“You asked him yesterday?”

“Two days ago. I was pretty drunk yesterday. No hangover today though. Guess that’s the one good thing about this mess.”

Sean hums a little and takes off his snapback to run a hand through his already-messy hair. “I think,” he says slowly, “that you wouldn’t be happy either way. Giving up hockey or giving up Jonathan.”

“I can’t have both.”

“No, I guess you can’t. Not in the way you’re used to, at least.” Great. That’s fucking helpful, thank you Sean. “What were you going to do, originally? On the first day you got drafted. What were you planning to do about Jonathan?”

Nate shrugs, picks at a hangnail. “Dunno. Stay friends, I guess. Play Avalanche hockey.”

“But you didn’t tell him you love him.”

“There’s no point, Monny. It’s too late for it to mean anything.”

“Maybe you should tell him that. That you love him, I mean. Just so he knows.”

Did he miss like, the entire time Nate talked about how he fucked up when he _did just that?_ “I told him once. It didn’t go so well, remember?”

“No, you didn’t tell him you love him. You gave him a choice, and you made him choose.”

Nate snaps his mouth shut.

Sean continues in his calm, slow voice. “Love is supposed to be offered without conditions. Maybe offer him that. Your love, no conditions attached.”

That sounds like, super good advice actually. Nate wonders where Sean learned this from. He’s 18, where does he get off sounding like a 45-year-old relationship counselor?

“Thanks Monny,” Nate says around a dry throat. He swallows a few times and pats Sean’s ankle before getting up.

Sean watches him go. “And just so you know, Mac, he loves you too I think. Though you might want to hear the words from him instead of me.”

This is officially the weirdest conversation Nate has ever had with Sean Monahan. Sean knows like, way too much now. It’s going to make visits to Calgary super awkward in the future, if the future ever comes.

Then again, Sean won’t remember any of this tomorrow.

 

 

Nate wakes up. In the next bed, Sean is groaning awake too, unaware that in a few hours he’ll be a Calgary Flame.

Jo has his stupid Starbucks. Nate watches him drink it.

“Couldn’t sleep. Too wired,” he explains when he catches Nate’s eye.

 _I love you_ , Nate almost says.

They get drafted. It’s much the same as every other time it’s happened. Thunderous applause, and then Jo is walking off the stage, smiling so hard his face must hurt, and he’s got Tampa’s colors draped over him now.

Sasha Barkov is ignoring them in the back room, and the lone cameraman steps out in a hurry to catch the Preds drafting Seth Jones.

“What did I tell you, Mister First Overall,” Jo says. His eyes are crinkled up with laughter, and he looks so good that Nate isn’t sure how he’s supposed to look away, ever. Doesn't know how he's supposed to live with Jo thousands of kilometers away.

 _I love you_ , Nate thinks about saying.

“Tampa though,” he says instead. “Dude, you got called by _Steve Yzerman_. You’re gonna play with St. Louis and Stamkos!” He’s had this conversation maybe three dozen times already. Always the same post-draft conversation.

“I know!” Jo looks thrilled. “It’s gonna be warm there too. I’m gonna be at the beach while you’re freezing your balls off in the mountains.”

“Denver’s nice, dude. It’ll be like Hali.”

Jo sobers a little at the mention of Halifax. “Yeah, yeah I guess so.” He looks at Nate from under his lashes. “We could still play together one more year, if we get cut. I mean, I hope we don’t, I hope we make it out of camp, but if we don’t, it won’t be so bad. One more run with the Herd before we hit the Show.”

Yeah, one more run with Jo. That sounds good.

“That wouldn’t be bad,” he says softly.

Jo smiles. It’s his special soft one, the one he only gives Nate, and only when he’s really happy.

“I love you,” Nate blurts out. Christ.

Jo blinks, once, twice. His lips part.

“I just, I needed you to know that. Before anything else changes.” No conditions attached. “So like, yeah. I love you. For a while now. I wasn’t going to say anything because we’re going to different teams, but I don’t want us to go our separate ways without you knowing.”

There’s a little crease forming between Jo’s eyebrows. Nate has no idea what it means.

“I know like, we always say _I love you man_ and stuff like that, and I do, I love you cause you’re my best friend and the best liney I ever had. But it’s more than in just that way. I—” _want to kiss you and be with you and call you my boyfriend and know that we’re forever—_

“Nate,” Jo says quietly.

Nate shuts up.

Jo is frowning just a bit, lower lip stuck out in a little pout. “Me too, okay? You’re my best friend, but I also like, I dunno, I like you in more than a friend way too. I just thought, since we’re getting drafted, you weren’t interested in anything more.”

Oh Christ, they’re both idiots.

Nate should say something, get their feelings clear between them, but it’s really hard to do anything except listen to the little voice in his head chanting _Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!_ It sounds a lot like good old Stefan Fournier.

Jo’s mouth is bitten-red, but his lips are soft under Nate’s, unsure at first but growing bolder. His sleeves fall back as he reaches up to touch Nate’s face, fingers gentle on Nate’s jaw. After that, Nate closes his eyes, and all he’s aware of is the feel of Jo’s mouth, his nose pressed to Nate’s cheek, his waist in Nate’s hands.

Someone clears his throat behind them. Jo jumps away from Nate, and they both turn to look guiltily at Sasha Barkov. But it’s Seth, standing in the doorway in his new gold Predators jersey.

Barkov is looking innocently into the distance. When he notices the silence, he turns back to Nate and says, “Was trying to give you some privacy. Very important to talk.”

Nate doesn’t know him very well, but he suddenly really, really likes Aleksander Barkov.

“Cameras are coming back,” Seth says, walking into the room. “Thought you might want a heads up before they film anything you don’t want them to catch.”

“Thanks,” Jo says, and his voice is remarkably steady. Nate doesn’t think he can sound anywhere near as calm.

Behind his back, Jo reaches for Nate’s hand and squeezes. It’s a solid pressure, a promise of _later_.

 

 

Nate wakes up. It’s still halfway dark out. He wonders if it is June 30th.

Jo rolls over and smushes his face against Nate’s shoulder and snuffles quietly. It’s very cute. Nate runs his hand through Jo’s hair, presses a kiss to his mess of curls.

At the foot of the bed, they’ve thrown their Avalanche and Lightning jerseys, white and burgundy mixed with blue and white, tangled and overlapping sleeves. Their caps are on the ground, where they’d tossed them yesterday before rolling into bed.

Nate lays in the semi-darkness and thinks about last night. Thinks about “It’ll be hard but we can do it,” thinks about “Things will be different but that’s okay.” Thinks about dates planned months in advance and Skype calls, trying to fit a long-distance relationship around an NHL schedule.

Thinks about getting to keep both Jo and hockey.

“Are you awake already?” Jo mumbles, not bothering to open his eyes.

Nate presses a kiss to his nose, overwhelmed with the sheer idea that _he can_ now. “Yeah, sorry for waking you.”

Jo grumbles softly and burrows closer, throwing a leg over Nate’s hip. “Go back to sleep, ’s too early. Don’t wake me again.”

“Okay,” Nate whispers.

Jo kisses his collarbone, so he figures he’s forgiven.

**Author's Note:**

> Monny is the best roommate ever


End file.
